


I Met A Man On The Way

by Littlebiscuits



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Comfort, Headaches & Migraines, M/M, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 11:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16304402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlebiscuits/pseuds/Littlebiscuits
Summary: Rook comes across the car just before lunchtime. It's slanted across the road, but not in a way that suggests it was forced to stop. More like someone had just had enough of driving, and chose to get out.





	I Met A Man On The Way

Rook comes across the car just before lunchtime. It's slanted across the road, but not in a way that suggests it was forced to stop. More like someone had just had enough of driving, and chose to get out. 

The driver's side door is still open, and Rook peers in carefully, aware that Eden's Gate have been experimenting with booby traps lately, and unwilling to let his curiousity get him killed. But there's nothing inside, nothing suspicious at all, save the collection of tiny shards, of what look like yellow glass, scattered in the footwell. Rook leans back out. Maybe someone got a hit of Bliss and thought they saw something in the woods, wandered in, lost their way? Or maybe they stopped to help someone, and got taken by Peggies?

Rook doesn't have anything time sensitive he has to be doing right now. It won't hurt to have a quick scout around in the woods, make sure that no one needs his help. It wouldn't be the first time he's found a citizen lost in the trees, heading in a direction that's going to leave them in Eden's Gate territory, or deeply lost, or too close to some of Hope County's less friendly wildlife.

He just hopes they haven't drowned in the Bliss, because there's always the possibility they won't see Rook for what he is, or they won't see him at all, too lost in their own worlds.

He follows the ridge, doesn't call out but keeps an eye out for anything unusual, dismissing animals, and the wind, and the glitter of sun-drenched water to his right. It's only when he reaches a tight knit of trees that he spots a boot, stretched out in the leaves, and topped by dark pants like it belongs to a person. Though whether it's a living person is still debatable, it wouldn't be the first half-eaten corpse he's come across after all. The woods aren't always kind to people who are wounded far from help, or hallucinating.

Rook heads up the slope.

"Hey, are you - " The words fall away, unimportant suddenly, because the person tipped back against the tree isn't a civilian, or Resistance, or even a Peggie. It's Joseph Seed himself, bare skin hidden for once under a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, bunched and darkened at elbow and waist. He's pressed back against the bark, and it takes him a moment to turn his head in Rook's direction, eyes unexpectedly bare in the light.

Rook's hand is on his gun, before he really registers that he'd moved, an instinctive reaction to danger, because it's fair to say that's the easiest way to describe Joseph Seed so far. Though the other man is clearly unarmed, even the knife at this thigh is missing. It's so unexpected though, Joseph feels so out of place, that for a second Rook seriously considers the fact that he walked through the Bliss without noticing, and Joseph isn't really here at all. But there's been no sparkles, no dizzy, euphoric high, the flies are still bothering him, and the side of his foot still hurts from where he'd ripped his boot open on a sharp rock. Rook's definitely not under the influence.

When he finally lets his hand drop away from his rifle, Joseph has already pushed himself to his feet, with an oddly slow sort of care, expression pinched, palm spread on the tree behind him. The man looks ill, his skin is so pale it's almost grey, sweat gathered at his throat, and there's a tight, uncomfortable stiffness to him that doesn't look right.

"Deputy," Joseph says, though his attempt at a determined tone sounds like it was forced out of him. He sways on his feet, then forces himself straight. Only for his whole body to curl into itself, as if the movement was too much for him, and while Rook watches, Joseph Seed sinks to his knees in the dirt.

Rook's under the tree before it occurs to him to expect a trap, too used to helping people who need it, too used to reacting without thinking. But it's blindingly obvious that this isn't any sort of trick, Joseph has his eyes shut, and his balance is fucked, arms shaking where he's trying to lean over on them. He looks like he's going to throw up, but wants literally anything else in the whole world. Rook carefully sinks to a crouch beside him, and he should know better, he should be more cautious, but he curls an arm around Joseph's waist anyway, takes his weight. Joseph is damp and chilled, lighter than the threatening intensity of him would suggest. Rook holds him in an awkward curve while he retches into the dirt, and every time it happens Joseph makes a quiet noise of misery, as if the tensing of his body is only adding to his pain.

Rook's not sure what to say 'Are you ok?' is a question that already has an obvious answer. 'What are you doing here?' seems unimportant right now.

"Do you want me to radio someone?" he asks at last. Because that is a thing Rook will do, if Joseph needs medical assistance Rook will leave him his damn radio and pretend he was never here.

There's a very faint movement, as if Joseph went to shake his head and forcibly stopped himself - which goes some way towards giving Rook a whole picture of what exactly is wrong with him. Before Joseph's cold, clammy hand presses down over Rook's, where it's dropped down to the radio at his belt. An obvious refusal, and Rook's not sure if it's an unwillingness to be seen like this, or if the thought of doing anything is too much right now. Including being picked up by one of his siblings, Rook suspects.

Joseph sinks carefully back against him, as if he trusts Rook to not let him fall, which under normal circumstances Rook would probably complain about, remind him that they were not friends, but Joseph's breathing is long and slow, carefully measured, as if too much effort might shake him apart right now.

Rook sighs and fishes in his backpack for a water bottle, holds it over Joseph's shoulder. Joseph murmurs shaky gratitude and lifts a hand, fingers still trembling. Which Rook suspects is not going to end well. He leaves his hand wrapped round the bottle, and Joseph seems to understand, unscrews the caps and draws him close, coaxes him to tip carefully while he drinks.

He draws it away when Joseph squeezes, when he leans back. His eyes are almost shut, forehead pinched like everything hurts, and Rook gets it, all at once, he understands. It's surprisingly easy to tuck in behind Joseph, and fold the hand that'd been wrapped around his water over his eyes, shutting out the light with cool fingers. The reaction to that is almost immediate, Joseph breathes a sigh, whole body slowly and reluctantly starting to relax out of its painful tension.

"You get migraines?" Rook asks, as quietly as he can.

Joseph breathes something soft, a noise that Rook chooses to take as affirmation. He gestures at his concealed eyes, an awkward wave that almost seems too much for him.

"Your eyes can't take the light?" Rook realises.

There's another soft noise in reply. Which explains Joseph's ever-present yellow sunglasses, and maybe their colour as well. Not a fashion choice then.

It also explains why Joseph is under a tree, tucked in like some sort of wounded animal, and exactly what might have happened in the road, where the tiny shards of yellow glass came from. He has to wonder how long Joseph was forced to drive without his glasses, exactly how they were broken in the first place, though Joseph doesn't look up to explaining anything right now. His hairline is damp, and he's breathing like everything hurts. 

It really is punishingly bright today, there's not a single cloud in the sky, and the sun isn't going down for hours.

Another man might take advantage of Joseph's unexpected weakness, a lesson that Jacob has been trying to drive into him for months, in a variety of brutal and unpleasant ways. But Rook doesn't like the idea of it, doesn't like what it would say about him, about the sort of man he is. Which leaves him with no choice but to let this unlikely ceasefire hold. He stretches his legs out in the dirt, doesn't stop Joseph from sinking into the easy line his chest makes. Which is strangely close, weirdly familiar, lending the moment an oddly friendly sort of intimacy that Rook isn't sure what to do with. Whether to treat Joseph like a temporary prisoner of war, or a friend in need.

One of them is so much easier than the other.

Though he can still feel the way Joseph's face is pinching under his fingers.

"Can I take your hair down?" Rook asks quietly. 

Joseph is all curious stillness for a moment, before he makes a very soft noise of assent.

Rook reaches up and unpicks the band, which is stupidly tight for a man currently suffering from what looks like the world's worst migraine. He passes the tie down to Joseph, who shakily loops it around his wrist without looking. Then Rook carefully encourages his hair to separate and lay down, which it's not entirely happy about. It's greasy underneath, when Rook pushes his fingers there, finds the curve of Joseph's scalp and rubs slow circles.

Joseph makes a noise, soft, surprised, before it trails into something that's all quiet relief and gratitude. 

Rook's life has been far from predictable since he went down in a helicopter, trying to arrest Joseph Seed. But he'd thought he finally had some idea about what he was working towards, what he was trying to accomplish. This definitely isn't it, this isn't where he's supposed to be, easing Joseph's pain in slow, circular motions, while he sighs, and breathes, and trusts Rook not to hurt him. And Rook doesn't know why Joseph has so much faith in him, why he treats him like an old friend, an old love, that he's determined to draw back into the fold. The more Rook destroys, the more Joseph protests that he's not angry, that he knows Rook understands what he's trying to do, while preaching destruction and judgement on everyone else, and Rook doesn't know how to defend against that.

Rook's mostly just carding his hand through Joseph's hair now, and he knows he should have stopped already, but it's soft and fine between his fingers, and the ends and front have curled in the heat. It makes Joseph look warm and human, someone Rook could imagine wanting to put his hands on, to sprawl out with in the sun. Joseph hadn't protested, had encouraged the slow sink of his fingers with a sigh and a tilt of head, though that doesn't quite seem like a good enough excuse. Rook makes his hand stop moving, draws it away - and he doesn't imagine the quiet sound of loss.

It occurs to Rook slowly that they've been there long enough for the shade to move. He can feel the warmth of the sun on the end of his leg.

Joseph protests when he tries to move him, fingers gripping Rook's wrist, teeth gritted like he expects to be dropped from a great height.

"It's ok," Rook says softly. "The sun's coming round, if we stay here it's going to get very unpleasant for you."

Rook settles them on the other side of the tree, away from the glare, and the creeping swathe of light. Joseph makes quiet, pained noises every so often, fingers tight on Rook's, spine tense, but he finally settles. Rook texts Grace that he's going to be out for the rest of the day. She texts him back asking him if he's had any luck, if he needs any help, and he genuinely has no idea how to answer that. The rest of his messages he doesn't bother replying to, especially not the jokes from Sharky, because that just encourages him.

Joseph's boot twitches, jostling him, and Rook moves his phone aside and tips his head down, to ask if he's alright. He discovers that Joseph's eyes are shut, mouth slightly open, there's a frown between his eyes, but the rest of his body is heavy, relaxed, breathing so deeply that Rook knows without even turning it over in his head that Joseph is asleep.

Joseph Seed is asleep on him.

Something inside Rook wants to laugh, at the insanity of it, at the way he's let it happen without a breath of protest. And he can almost hear Joseph's voice insisting that Rook's meant to be here, that he's meant to see, meant to be a part of this. But all Rook can feel is the slow expansion of Joseph's chest, and the curling tickle of his hair against his neck, and the way one of Joseph's hands has slipped down to rest against his thigh, and Rook thinks they went past familiar some way back, and he didn't even notice. Joseph was supposed to be dangerous because of his ability to draw people in with words, to persuade, to manipulate, to win people by force of personality. But Rook feels half ruined by his silence, by the tired humanity of him.

The shade moves again, slowly, Rook's arm goes to sleep, but he can't quite make himself move. Because this seems like an impossible place to have ended up, from all the decisions he's made today. Joseph makes a noise in his sleep, fingers curling on Rook's thigh, and Rook's first instinct is to touch him, to reach out in some way, but he resists it. He's not sure what he's doing, he's not sure if this counts as a ceasefire any more, or something more complicated, something that he's allowed to happen. 

He can hear planes in the distance, the rustle of something in the undergrowth. There's a faraway crack of gunfire, that Rook is usually personally attached to. But it only lasts a moment, and there's no way to tell who won, if anyone really wins in this county, cult taking from the Resistance, and then Resistance taking from the cult. Rook's not sure it ever really ends. Or whether this is just how they all live now.

Rook thinks that he drifts, for a minute, or two, or fifteen. Long enough that he now has an arm looped half around Joseph, as if he's trying to protect him in his sleep. 

It's a little after that, sun easing down, the last heat of it warm on Rook's boots, when Joseph moves against him, a twitching shift, like he'd dreamt of falling. Rook feels Joseph's spine tighten, hears him slowly inhale and ease forward again.

"I'm sorry," Joseph says quietly, he seems surprised. "I didn't intend -"

"It's fine." Rook realises his hands have slipped down, fingers curled loosely at Joseph's waist, feeling the warmth of his skin under the thin, slightly damp material of his shirt. He should make himself stop touching, settle his hands on the grass instead, but he doesn't. Rook's leg and chest are left empty when Joseph carefully moves away from him, and it's a strange loss, unexpected, and something he should probably feel less than he does. 

But he doesn't say anything, shifts himself into a more comfortable position, since his leg and his arm and half his ass have gone completely numb. Rook fishes another drink out of his backpack, shares it with Joseph, along with a bag of chips, and one of the tightly wrapped, long-life bars that seem to be all over the county. It tastes a little bit like raisins, and a little bit like nuts, and a little bit like sawdust as well.

Joseph seems better, enough that he murmurs a quiet thank you, and shades his eyes but leaves them open. Rook settles back against the trunk, and watches Joseph slowly rebuild himself into something more like the man Rook remembers, something less brittle - but perhaps more wounded, as if stability has simply reminded him of the distance he's come, the work he has yet to do, of the choices he still has to make.

Once the sun threatens to disappear entirely Rook lets Joseph pull him to his feet, before watching him retie his hair, not quite as tidily, but it makes Joseph more familiar again, or less, Rook's not sure which. Though he suspects this is a ritual that few people have witnessed. That maybe this is a Joseph few people have seen, caught between moments of performance, of furious, destructive purpose, quieter, and a little easier to touch. More dangerous maybe, at least to Rook.

Rook walks him back to his car, which for some reason he feels strangely awkward about, a familiar ritual for a different ending, a different sort of companionship. Or maybe Rook's just reluctant to break this strange, quiet moment that's been so starkly different from his days and nights of late. Rook would like more days to feel like this, confusing and new and impossible, without the threat of dying, but that feels traitorous somehow.

There are no sermons once they reach the road, no quiet reminders about the end of the world. Joseph just draws Rook in, lays their foreheads together with a slow, determined sort of purpose. And Rook can't think of a good reason to stop him, not when he's had his hands on Joseph all afternoon, the way he's been touching him all afternoon - Rook's brain grasps for a way to phrase it that doesn't sound so intimate, finally gives up when it finds none.

"Rook," Joseph says quietly. "Thank you for your assistance, and your compassion." He says it so seriously, as if Rook has proven himself to be everything Joseph hoped he would be.

Rook opens his mouth to reply, to protest that he really did nothing. But Joseph tips his head down, breathing close in a way that no longer feels quite so familial, and then far past it, when there's a warm line of pressure across Rook's mouth, effortlessly making the intimacy that Rook had refused to acknowledge an unexpected reality. And it paints the afternoon in much warmer colours, makes the hours he spent with Joseph laid against him something much different. 

"Should you find yourself lost," Joseph murmurs. "Or should you ever need someone to talk to, someone to share your frustrations with, or simply a moment to rest and consider what the future holds for you. My door is always open."

Joseph's hands slide down, dropping from his face to his shoulders, and then away entirely.

"I don't know -" Rook doesn't know if he can do that, doesn't know if he should do that. He doesn't know how he could explain wanting it to anyone else. 

"I would like to read to you," Joseph adds, then smiles slightly, as if he's admitted to something more suggestive than words and company.

Rook's still trying to work through that, through what it means, when Joseph slips past him and settles himself back in his car, where pieces of his glasses are still crushed, where they crunch into smaller shards beneath his boots. Rook knows he's going to be looking for yellow ones in every store, resisting the urge to pick them up and consider them for fit and style. To buy them just in case.

Rook's left in the road, air slowly cooling as day turns to night. Before he really even has time to think about what this means, his radio clicks and clicks at his belt, requests for help, demands for his attention, anger at John Seed's newest attempt to make himself hated, questions about where he is and what he's doing. If he's free, if he's close, if he can help.

He lifts the radio to his mouth.

"I'm here," he tells them. "What do you need?"


End file.
